Inhaler
by ropesburg
Summary: Short stories centered around Red and Lizzy. Meant as a Lizzington fic collection.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes I know this deviates from canon. Think of it as a post-s3 AU.

* * *

There was an unassuming little house at the end of the road. Brown, not painted. The porch needed some touching to, but there was a porch swing, a few potted outdoor plants. To the left there was a greenhouse with cajoling plants, a leafy mess. The only sound came from the cooling engine, ticking, and the sound of the wind rustling the trees. The pine trees had swept down debris from their branches. Yellow specks of pollen covered the roof and the windows. At the bottom of the valley the house and its surroundings grew cauldron-hot. The sun tried to scorch the man's skin. He pulled his hat down, having stopped in front of the small steps to the porch. A thin screen door protected what was inside from the outside.

He had grieved.

He had grieved her. When she died-

His life.

Not the same. Not ever. There was a before and an after. The entirety of his life, of the span of years, a before, when he was alive, alive with her. And an after. A dark, grueling fireball that hammered knives into his chest, moment after moment, an unending cutting, a thrashing of his insides that left him bleeding on the floor like no bullet could have done.

And the baby. Her baby. He'd gotten her back, through more atrocities than he could account for. Hell could wait. What mattered was that that piece of her was safe. That there was a remnant of her left in this world. That there was a person that could, through her sheer being, prove that Liz had existed. Once. In a better place, and a world that had been better for it.

Life. He'd extracted it from Kirk, shooting him point blank with a hollow point, watching guts spray out over the wall behind them. A moment of solace, paired with disconcerting quiet. Then sirens. He ran from the police with less vigor than usual, tiredly pulling out his handkerchief to wipe the blood off of his face.

Life. He didn't want any of it.

Then Kaplan disappeared. His formerly trusted, most trusted, went missing. There was always chatter in the criminal world, even about people like Kaplan. But there was none. Her disappearance was a stone dropped beneath the surface of a lake, leaving no rings on the water. She wasn't dead. She wasn't anywhere.

It started then. The aching suspicion that something, somewhere, wasn't right. A bolt that hadn't been screwed on properly, causing the whole machine to tremble. Somewhere there was a gap. A lapse. Raymond Reddington set out to find it.

If Kaplan had disappeared, it had been because of him. Just as he could never fully bring himself to hurt her, punch her, punish her, she couldn't bring herself to lie to him. It came abundantly clear that she was escaping him. Out of a fear for what she would tell him? What could it be, for her to go to such great lengths?

They had been drinking when she said it, the thing about a cabin. Years ago. A decade, even. Kaplan was sitting in a leather chair in the corner, the dim light from the fire flickering over her face. "I always wanted a cabin. A cottage, something small." Raymond was looking for it now. Every small road, every intersection. From the backseat, he frowned at all the possibilities, at all the endless, dusty shitholes that could harbor Kaplan's location. One of those roads, over the potholes and around the bends, she'd ventured...

Aram had handed him a quizzical note with a location. "This is as far as I managed to track her car." He closed his mouth, a wrinkle on his forehead. "...I'm sorry."

The note. The note had led him there. Across the fickle mountain roads, to the sour gas station attendants whose game of poker he'd interrupted and away from them again, past half a dozen of signs profiting off of the good name of a ski resort that wasn't set to open for another five months.

The thin patch of stomped out dirt where he'd left the car was the only road for miles. It was a no man's land, this biting, unforgiving country side. From behind the corner of the house, Dembe returned from his reconnaissance. He'd put his gun away. "Raymond." He held his hand out, as if to stop him, slow him down.

Reddington was still holding onto his gun, "What is it?"

Still holding his hands out, Dembe nodded towards the screen door.

He went up the stairs then, Dembe remaining at the stairs. Slowly opening the screen door, he peeked inside. It was clean. White curtains, some magazines on the coffee table. A dirty plate on the kitchen counter. A glass, see-through. It smelled like food from the kitchen, a remaining drift. The old floors creaked as he walked across them. The living room with a TV, an old clunky thing. To the left was the bedroom, with light blue walls and a soft-looking bed cover. The door in the living room led him out into the garden. There was a slight breeze that made the trees shimmer, and small waves were brought to life in the lake, and it made her dark brown hair sway, gathering over her shoulders. She stroked some of the strands back.

"Raymond."

"Lizzy."


	2. Chapter 2

Her body was so small. So fragile, her bones so easy to break. By reflex Agnes' fingers wrapped around one of hers, despite that she was almost asleep. Dark eyelashes, a dark patch of hair. Her skin smelled of the bed, of the disposable wipes.

The bed creaked a bit as Raymond shifted. "Shouldn't we put her in her own bed?"

Nodding, Lizzy kept on looking at her daughter. "I was going to, but I got distracted. Look..." She raised her hand a bit to show the small hand attached to hers. "Her fingers are so small..."

On the other side of the bed, Raymond nodded. He too was lying on his side. The three of them in a row. The smallest in the middle, Lizzy to the left, Raymond to the right.

His head supported by his hand, he regarded the sleeping child for a moment. "I hope she gets your eyes."

Shaking her head, then sighing, Liz gently released her finger from the tiny grip. "I hope she's nothing like me." She stuffed a pillow higher with her hand, then put her head down.

Beneath the baby's eyelids, there was movement, tiny ripples.

"I think she's dreaming."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Some kind of AU.

* * *

He was an ugly man. A deceitful, miserable man.

He caused wars. He made them happen.

His life had rendered him violent, uncaring, an unpinned grenade tossed into a school bus.

Boom bam ba.

* * *

The dress was red as an internal organ. It looked as if you'd reached into her entrails and pulled out her heart. It was the color of war, of terror in the making. It was the color of explosions. The calm before the detonation. Stillness.

Her lips were painted red, like she'd been ravaged by a dog.

He barely spared a glance at her lips. It was her dress that interested him. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but it was the way she carried herself that enthralled him. Her brown hair was cut in a page. He didn't like women with short hair. He didn't like women who were packing. From the weight of her purse, he knew there was a gun in there. A small Balenciaga with a gun.

He didn't like anything that she did.

But he loved the things she said.

* * *

It was like a funeral, a misery that dripped from their clothes. They left the club late in the night, almost morning. Given a few moments the sky would belch up the yellow curve, shaking the city again. But for now it was dark. Still dark. She was looking at him, rancid. She was uncaring too.

He wanted to leave with her.

Didn't.

* * *

She crossed a sidewalk, from a store to a car. He felt as if he was being lifted into the sky. She got in the passenger seat. Who was driving? Her boyfriend? A chauffeur? Her perfect legs, clad in shabby jeans, felt like a vision. A revelation. Atonement for sins that he would love to commit.

They met at another club by chance.

He owned it. She was a visitor.

From afar, he could tell that the slim figure with her back turned against him, stiffly sunken down in the too-expensive leather sofa, was hers. Her shoulders, her adamant flat hair, like a wall protecting her. Beside her a man. Oily, buttoned up shirt, leaning in when talking to her.

Rage -

filling him.

It set him on fire, hatred, vanquishing anger, a righteousness that resulted in unparalleled disdain. How dare he? How dare he? How dare he talk to the woman that carried herself like that? Was he blind? Dumb? How dare he talk to someone fit for a king, a kingdom, needing nothing else than a kingdom to rule, worlds to conquer, warriors to lay to rest. As if answering his prayers, but more likely her own, she got up, leaving the man in the sofa in the middle of his argument, his daft mouth still open. Coolly, she walked towards the bar. A tiny smile, like a winking of her mouth. Mesmerizing. Ordering a drink, she then sat down by the bar.

Her dress was white.


	4. Chapter 4

Opposite days. Two opposite people. They shared a thing. A heart, a chest filled with gold. A heart of gold. Or something darker. It didn't matter. The bond, this connection, it remained still on the floor, between the rooms, where he slept and she slept. It linked them in ways they didn't enjoy. Untrustworthy. One day, it showed up. This bond that screwed them over.

She was resilient. He didn't fight. Love was a bit like falling through the ice. You had to stay calm. Don't panic. Don't panic! He told himself this, over and over. He thought of telling Dembe, telling Luli, that _please watch out for me because I cannot do it for myself._ Where had his mind gone? It was unclear. If he were to venture a guess he would say it had gone up the stairs at a brownstone mansion, let itself in through the door, gone up the creaking stairs, pausing to listen for the sleeping breaths, then continuing up, into the bedroom. His mind had lied down in the bed, blissful from the warmth of her.

His mind. But not his body. His body remained in the archaic rooms, the quiet floors. He was in despicable flats and dusty houses. He was without her.

* * *

She was at the office, in the box. The mailbox, postbox. She was inside. He was outside. Every now and then he joined her in the lifeless landscape. Her bedshaped body, the stubborn set of her shoulders, everything, it allured him. Eluding him. As well as her. She dodged him with the frown of someone who had looked forward to dodging a bullet. She ducked under his outstretched arm. Refusing to become involved, with him. If they were an item, she was intent on smashing it.

His mind was shattered. No other way to describe it.

Her mind was whole. It was an intently wound ball of yarn, an unending frizz. It bothered her. And she was about to slip up. There was a need to change her course. She tried to watch out for the holes in the ground but still ended up falling. There were potholes in the tarmac and she hit every single one.

He did look dangerous. She waited to be shot, she waited for a beam to be cut off and hit her in the head. His file was full of things that seemed improbable, and yet they'd happened. She wasn't about to fall for it. She refused to be caught in the web, in the quiet storm of his actions. Not one of those agents, deprived of real action that decided that they could turn this one around. That they could help this one criminal, that the speech about right and wrong would actually work, it would set them straight. And it would save them.

She wasn't like that.

This man. Dangerous. He was her paycheck. Her future in the agency had showed up neatly dressed in a three-piece suit. The devil was in the details. But this one time, it seemed the devil was on her doorstep, looking in.


	5. Chapter 5

It was as good day as any to turn yourself in to the police. During the ride over there, Dembe drove in silence. The rounded a grand hotel, turning right onto a busy street where they remained still. "This is a mistake," it came from the driver's seat. Raymond Reddington looked out onto the row of cars. "Have you no faith in me?" He met Dembe's eyes in the rear view mirror. There was a tense set to the man's face, a slight frown. "Luli will keep an eye on everything. I've told her to keep it under wraps as long as possible." He leaned his clean-cut head back against the head rest, admiring the lengthy buildings and commerce. Chewing for a second on the inside of his lip, he then asked for the time. He was on time for his arrest.

As per plan, Dembe dropped him off at Union Square. "You're a foolish man, Raymond." He squeezed the steering wheel tightly with his hands. In return, Red lifted his hat, tipping his head in the direction of the car. "Thanks for the ride."

The hat now safely returned to his scalp, he made his way to the unassuming building two blocks away. The city was crawling with workers, moms, stuffy gentlemen with canes. A bakery leaked wafts of freshly made bread, spilling its temptations out onto the sidewalk. An old station wagon huffed out gray clouds as it spluttered down the boulevards. It coughed weakly at the stop lights.

Gray met up with him outside the headquarter. He put the briefcase on the bench. "It must be good to be home again, sir." Red glanced at the dull square that was soon to eat him up. "Yeah. Well, we'll see about that."

* * *

She was in her car when the call came. A big shot at the bureau ordered her to do an interview. At the office, she was quizzed. Cooper was asking the questions that mostly were centered around her. A red-haired man was in the office as well. Stern-looking, broad shoulders. He didn't look a bit like someone from human resources. Finally, after painstakingly navigating around the director's questions, they came to the true reason for their visit. Raymond Reddington had been apprehended. He was asking for her.

Reddington, a classic case of "operative gone rogue", were believed to be involved in dozens of overseas and domestic incidents. They'd discussed him at a lecture, looking at his profile and background. It didn't make sense, but then most criminals didn't have a specific reason for turning bad. It was a slippery slope and he was the worst of a bad bunch. Cooper regarded her, his hands folded on the desk. "Do you have a history with Reddington?" Momentarily stumped, Elizabeth shook her head. "No, sir." She'd heard his name in the classroom, a one hit wonder on the big projector screen. After that, nothing.

The red-haired man moved behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. Still frowning.

Cooper and him shared a glance, then Harold looked back at her. "Have you met him before?"

She shook her head. "No, sir." Looking down on her sweaty hands, the pink scar that lingered outside her jacket sleeve. "Never."

* * *

Ressler's breathing was hard and fast. His hands were bundled into fists, a tight set to his teeth. "I don't think she should be a part of this, sir."

Regarding him for a bit, then looking at the woman in the office, Cooper shook his head. "I think she's telling the truth."

Another thinly veiled grimace. "Sir, with all due respect, this feels like a set-up. I've been working on catching Reddington for five years, I don't-"

"She's coming."

* * *

Some decision was made, and when Cooper came back, she was allowed to come with. Her purpose was to piece together a new profile. There already was plenty of intelligence on Reddington, but none from a close distance. Nothing that had been offered up voluntarily.

They kept him in a cube, of sorts. A sensory-deprivation chamber with air instead of water. Hermetically sealed. The guards followed her down, like a piece of meat being lowered into a shark tank. It was a grotesque game of chances, as if her name had been pulled out of an unseen magician's hat.

His hair was cut short. He looked nothing like his picture. No unkempt beard, no hat. No glasses.

She sat down in the chair, got visibly comfortable. "Well, here I am."

"You got rid of the highlights." She'd had lighter hair in Boston, but recently dyed it dark on a whim. This was a ruse, an attempt to pull the rug out from underneath her. Her training, her training had prepared her.

She ignored it. "Why me?"

For a short while, in control. Short.

He had facts, hard knowledge, an entire little book with _Elizabeth Keen_ on the cover and he was reading aloud. Apparently there had been a hole in the system, a latch where he could have gotten in. Her records from the FBI laid bare. He was a stranger yet he knew her well.


End file.
